The Warden Chronicles: The Vampires of St Louie
by Emperor Sunny
Summary: Jason James Johnson is just a twenty year old business major at Wash U. I mean, just a college student who just happens to be a Warden. Of the WHITE COUNCIL. Tie in a job, a girlfriend, and an ongoing war, and life gets.. well, interesting.
1. Chapter 1

*OVERALL DISCLAIMER*

I don't write this with a profit in mind, nor do i intend to misuse the names of Jim Butcher's characters, of St. Louis' landmarks, sports franchises, or political figures. This is done purely for my entertainment. TAKE THAT, ROMANTIC COMEDY!

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

You know, most normal people complain at the office when the coffee runs out or if the copying machine jams. They are all worried about how the damn St. Louis rush hour is so hectic. They watch the 4 A.M. news religiously just to find out where it's going to be bad, what the weather is like, who killed who last night. Man, how boring is that?

My job is much more… exciting. To say the least. I think.

Well, I guess I should know, really. Come on, what's more exciting than battling _vampires_, man?

Two of the half bat, half supernatural abominations jumped from the concrete floor, a whole thirty feet in the air, right at me. I ducked under the first and slashed my talwar upwards, gutting the vampire from groin to its large, flabby throat. As it fell to the floor in a soupy plop, I jumped from the rafters with it. Kneeling on the grimy floor, my gray cloak pooling around me, I prepared for the next attack.

It came from my right flank. The bloodthirsty monster that was once a mortal human being scrabbled across the smooth, dusty floor, its claws raking into it as it dashed to rip out my spine. Spinning on my knee, I thrust the curved Indian-styled sword at its gaping, razor filled maw and felt, more than saw, the titanium blade sink through its skull. Yanking it out, I turn again just in time to duck out of the way of the first jumper.

It sailed over my head, but its claws seared my back with three superficial strokes. I growl more at the vampire than the injury, and spin around again, facing the three remaining vamps lurking at the northern end of the warehouse. One stayed right in front of me, dead center. The other two stalked to my left and right, respectively. Flanking maneuvers, obviously. I sneered at the lead creature as I prepared myself.

It didn't sneer back, back they didn't attack right away. Glowing, gold-red eyes stared hungrily back at mine from a bat-esque, face. Long, pointed ears stuck up from the sides of its head, leading imaginary lines down passed its eyes and to the equally batty, up-turned nose. Wing-like flaps of skin sagged down from its arm pits, and ran down its arm to its wrists. It stood on all fours, clawing the concrete and its hideously tongue flopped lecherously, as if the dust was just a starting taste to what it really wanted.

_Buh_, gross.

The lead vampire shrieked, and the flankers attacked. In two smooth movements I brought up my left wrist to shield myself from one of the flankers, and dropped my sword and produced my blasting rod with my right. The first vampire got lucky; it rebounded of my shield and went flying backwards. The other, not so much…

"_Ignus_!" I chanted monotonously, and sprang forward, towards the lead vampire. The second vampire erupted in flame, fell to the floor, and skidded to a thudding halt, right through where I had been standing half a second before.

The lead vampire, Tiny(as I decided to dub it,) dug its claws into the metaphorical ground at roared. I faked with my blasting rod, swatting at its head with a sideways swing. It reacted just the way I wanted it to, batting the small rod of wood from my grasp. Having purposely letting the rod go, it caused the vampire to lurch forward treacherously. Without the expected resistance from me, the laws of physics did my dirty work for me. Snapping my now free right hand to my hip, I grasped my small sawed off shotgun and brought the twenty gauge barrel to bear firmly at the Vampires neck.

With a calm squeeze of the trigger, the monster's neck exploded into a cloud of reddish-black blood and gore.

Cocking the lever-action just as calmly, I turned in time to slam the butt of the shotgun into the nose of the first flanker. It reeled backwards, blood and snot and vampire saliva flying into the musty warehouse air as it did. It stood on its hind legs, perilously and awkwardly standing upright. With a smooth twirl of the stock, I jabbed the nose of the gun behind its bottom jaw, and squeezed the trigger again. The buckshot flashed through like a bullet through a watermelon.

"_Adhevo_," I muttered twice, calling my talwar and my blasting rod to me. I sauntered up to the whimpering and roasting last vampire. It was a testament, I think, that after getting a head on, face full of deadly fire, the damnable thing was still, if barely, kicking. It was a reminder of just how tough the Red Court Vampires were. With a final slash of the blade, its life-force ceased.

But the lesson would always remain; Vampires are as tough as hell, nails, and the entire St. Louis Rams football team combined, and then some.

Yep, office people's lives are very, very bland compared to that of a Warden of the White Council. Who needs morning rush hour and exploding coffee pots when you can slay five hideous, monstrous beasts that wanna drink your blood for breakfast and save your intestines for dinner before five A.M? Not me, that's for sure.

Melodramatic breathe in, exaggerated sigh out. Just another day at the office…


	2. Chapter 2

"_**PILOT"**_

**Recommended List**ening: Soundtrack of My Life

**Artist**: Less Than Jake

**Album**: In with the Out Crowd

* * *

My name is Jason James Johnson, and believe it or not, my life is actually kind of normal. I live in the St. Louis city metro area. I am a business major at Washington University, in the Olin Business Program. I work part time at a gas station. I live in an apartment with my girlfriend, Trisha. I root for the Cardinals, cuss the Rams for their horrible losing streak, and I bleed Blue. I enjoy going to the Jazz clubs, partying it up at Mardi Gras. I stay away from the Casino Queen, half because I'm not even old enough yet, and half because I know it's just a waste of money. I laugh at tourists who stare at the Arch in awe, because I see it every day. When I was a kid, the City Museum and Six Flags were my favorite places to spend a day of fun. Normal, right?

Normal, aside from being a wizard. . Yeah, A _real_ wizard. Not one of those sideshow freaks who link metal hoops together or play card tricks. I mean magic.

Summoning fire from nowhere, calling objects to my hand, tracking monsters, voodoo rituals, etc. Magic. Real fun stuff. Unfortunately, being a wizard also makes having technology almost a no-no. Something to it just doesn't handle sensitive electrical circuits very well, so everything I own has to have been made pre-Korean War-era. Yippee…

And the other, not so normal problem? Trish doesn't have a clue what I am. To her, I'm merely technologically impaired, and happen to break TVs and cell phones within minutes of being close to them. After spending almost eighteen months with me, she had finally gotten used to not being able to have technology around, and was even beginning to like it. And who says candles aren't more romantic?

I'm not just a wizard, but also a Warden of the White Council. The White Council is like the wizard equivalent of a government, and they employ certain wizards, like me, as Wardens. Wardens are the White Council's version of police, Spetsnaz, Delta Force, and Jedi Knights all wrapped into one. We are charged with the overall mission of upholding the Seven Laws of Magic, be it by hunting down black magic practitioners, or executing said dark wizards on the spot. We also protect the Senior Council member's, play security guard at wizardly get-togethers, and occasionally fight beings of the spirit world. The Warden's mission has broadened in the last couple of years, due to the war with the Red Court of Vampires.

We're now the Council's front line cannon fodder.

Yeah, my life is pretty normal.

* * *

A quick look to my watch tells me it's just past six-thirty. That's good, because it means I just get back in time to wake up my girlfriend. Popping the key into the front door of our shared apartment door, however, reveals something unexpected.

There, in front of our old, porcelain-white gas stove is my beautiful girlfriend of a year and a half wearing nothing but a short, tight, white t-shirt and panties. Excuse me while I drool, it's hard not to. Hey, at five foot three, one hundred-thirty pounds, Trisha fills out her bedtime usual very nicely. Her dirty blonde hair is up in a sloppy ponytail and her trimmed bangs come just short of her perfectly arched eyebrows, accentuating her pale green eyes. Her pointed chin and wide, tall forehead tops it all off, giving her face a cute, irresistible heart shaped appearance.

And said cute face is staring pseudo angry daggers me. "And where were you, Mr. Anti-Technology?"

That's her nickname for me, since she knows that anything electronic made after the sixty's tends to mysteriously quit working around me. What she doesn't know is they do because I'm a wizard

"Oh, I just went on a morning jog," I lie smoothly, snatching a piece of bacon from her plate and munching on it thoughtfully.

"Yeah," she mutters, losing all sense of humor. Uh _oh_. "You, oh ye who smokes a pack and a half a day went running."

"Just because I smoke doesn't mean I can't be athletic, too."

"Bull," Trish sighed. "I'm a pre-med student at SLU. I'm not even going to bother quoting to you all the evidence that tells me you're full of crap. Just eat your damn breakfast and go to school."

She tossed two plates of bacon, eggs, and pancakes angrily on the table, poured me a glass of orange juice, and sat down with coffee. Did I mention I have to keep the whole me-being-a-wizard thing under wraps?

"Pulpy orange juice?" I asked, taking a seat as well. I knew she was mad at me for disappearing at three in the morning and lying about it, but sheesh. That isn't an excuse to deny me my black gold. A man needs his coffee.

"Yes," she answered coolly. "You are watching your diet from now on."

"Huh?"

"You heard me," she replied calmly, though the anger was evident in her voice. "You drink coffee excessively, smoke your Camels even more so, and you eat fatty, sugary, salty, greasy foods like a fat kid in a bakery. The cigarettes and coffee are going to shoot your blood pressure through the roof, and all the cholesterol is just going to burn out your heart."

"So what if I am a fat kid in a bakery?" I snap as I tear into a slice of bacon. As soon as it hits my tongue, however, I gag. "Bah, what the hell is _this_?"

"Bacon," Trish answers, arching her already curved eyebrow.

"No, bacon tastes good and crunches. This tastes like old sock and has a texture to match."

"Its fat-free turkey bacon, for your information. Diet, remember, Jason?"

"To hell with that," I bark as I stand up. Three hours of sleep, battling five vampires in an abandoned Granite City warehouse and no coffee was making me an angry, pissy, whiny dull boy. Grabbing my messenger bag from the floor by the apartment door, I stalked out and slammed the apartment shut behind me. "See you after work," I bark.

I tromp down the stairs of the apartment building, nodding at Old Mick along the way. The old man is our neighbor, and had lived in the same apartment for fifty years. The fifth and top floor is where our two humble abodes reside, with a small hallway and the stairs splitting the two apart. Old Mick himself is a quiet, but honest and good guy with a balding head and pale blue eyes. His wife died ten years ago, and ever since the old man never quite recovered. He gave me a grandfatherly smile as I went by him.

Walking out into the garage, I throw my bag into the cab of my candy apple red, '70 Ford truck. Bessie, as I call her, rumbled to life with a raucous purr oh her rebuilt engine. She was a pet project of mine in High School, and since my dad was and still is loaded, she got the works.

A complete engine and transmission overhaul spiffed up the performance. When I bought her of a widowed farm wife, the timing of the engine was so horrendous that when it idled the entire cab just shook. A new body kit patched up the suspension, lowered it a tad, and made the ride smoother. The interior was refurbished, and the old, moth eaten bench seats were replaced with big, shiny leather racing seats.

The red paint job had been another little side job, with a lot of help and inspiration from my teacher, Winona. To the casual, naked eye the sheen was the prettiful candy apple red. However, beneath the shiny coats of red were sigils and runes, painstakingly stenciled and with great detail to form subtle protective wards. Why? They keep nasty things like ectoplasm and zombie-juice and vampire claws off the sheet metal of my prized possession.

I love my truck. Every gas guzzling, piston clankin', air polluttin', smoke belchin' inch of her. Lord, Mr. Ford, if only you had made women the way you had made your trucks.

* * *

Remember what I said about rush hour? Well, I'm complaining about it now. Technically, Trish and I don't live in St. Louis, exactly. But Florissant is pretty damn close, and the rush hour on interstate 270 and 170 all the way to Washington University is just as bad as it is on 55 and 64. Add in my lack of coffee, close quarters to new age technology, and grumpy fellow commuters, and my day was not off to as great of a start.

A middle-age, pot-bellied man in a cheap business suit had driven in the left lane alongside me for five minutes before his Camry had an electrical blowout. He was forced to plow off the interstate and slam into the ditch just to get out of the way of everyone else. Blushing, I put a cap on my emotions, lest they ruin someone else's day, too.

Before long, the signature Quad roof of Hollings Hall came into my view and it wasn't much longer after that that Bessie was parked and I was walking to my first of my two classes that morning. I stifled a yawn as I stopped into the café in the student center. Going for my Masters in business in the Olin Business School was hard work on its own, but add in duties as a Warden of the White Council, a part time job at Florissant gas station, and a live-in girlfriend who wanted to change every aspect of my manly nature, and it got tedious. Oh hail, ye who brings coffee.

I like my coffee the same way I like my metal; black. Maybe a little sugar, maybe a tad of milk every once in a while to keep it from being too bitter, but almost always black. Always bitter. I get my taste from dear ole dad, the old jarhead.

With a rueful smirk, I'm ready to hit my lectures. Quantitative Decision making only runs for an hour or so, but after ten minutes it feels like an eternity. My professor is as dry and nasally as the Merlin himself at times, I swear. But alas, I somehow manage to stay alert enough to take the majority of the notes and then some.

I spent my half hour of downtime back in that small café, chugging down another cup or three of coffee when he walks in. Quincy, that is. Quincy is, quite simply, a messenger for the Wardens. And I haven't even explained what a Warden is, have I?

So to say I wasn't surprised when Quincy the Messenger showed up at my place of higher learning would be an understatement. I was kinda expecting the old bastard.

Short, stocky, and well over a hundred years old, Quincy still didn't look a day over forty-five. A slight paunch in the middle, coupled with well trimmed salt and pepper black hair made him look sophisticatedly well aged. He wore a neat goatee that had been trimmed up top, but was held longer down on his chin by a few centimeters. Almond shaped, sharp hazel eyes never left my forehead. Dressed in a snazzy, if comfortably old fashioned silk suit, he was overall charismatic in appearance.

"Warden Johnson," he drawled in a smooth, half-British, half-East Coast accent. "How do you fare this morning?"

"After the party last night, fairly well," I reply in the code we were supposed to employ in public. I wave for him to take a seat in the lounge chair opposite of mine. "I take the trash from said shindig has been taken care of?"

"But of course," Quincy answered. "You were not too horribly impaired by the evening's events, I hope?"

"A few scratches," I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. It wouldn't be too long now before I would need to change the bandages. "Nothing that a little TLC can't fix."

"Ah, good, good," he simpered, keeping up the ruse. His eyes never stared away from my forehead and mine never left his goatee, lest we engage in an unwanted soulgaze. A soulgaze happens when a wizard locks eyes with another person. You see them and everything they've done, and vice versa, all in a flash of a second. What you see cannot be unseen, and stays with you. Forever.

"Your Aunt sends her regards, and wishes that this letter and adjoining package sees you through satisfactorily," he produced an envelope with my legal name on it.

I don't bother opening it. I know what it was; a debrief on last night's run in with the vampires, sent from Warden Commander Luccio's office. And just in case you hadn't figured it out, Luccio is "The Aunt." The code was a necessity for survival, or so the powers that be believe. We were at war with sneaky, shifty vampires. To any possible passerby or wannabe spy, Quincy would look like an old uncle or family friend. Not someone who had high level intelligence on the enemy.

"Thank you," I say as I tuck the letter into my bag. "I'll get back to her as soon as I possibly can."

"You must, now. She very much wishes to hear back from you by tonight."

Great, just another thing to add to the schedule.

* * *

Just a plot setter. No big, really.


	3. Chapter 3

"**Another Night at the Office"**

**Recommended Listening:** Should I Stay or Should I Go

**Artist:** The Clash

**Album:** Combat Rock

Working at an inner city gas station is an interesting occupation, to say the least. Lots of gang members, druggies, drunks, teenagers, and scared tourists come in at all times of the day. From the beginning of my shift at three in the afternoon until the time I get off at eleven, all sorts come in and out, expecting different things, causing all kinds of problems.

"For the second time, sir," I said slowly and condescendingly, "We do not sell rolling papers."

"You don't sell 'em," the obviously high kid said shakily. Sweat matted his dew rag and dripped down his dark skin. He shook from equally noticeable withdrawal. His dirty Sam Musial jersey mostly hid the hilt tucked into his jeans. "But you got some, right?"

"No."

He shook his head in a jerky, nervous manner. "You gotta, dawg. You gotta, please."

"I told you, we don't have them, now if there is anything else you need-"

"A cigar, then. Gimme a cigar, man."

"You got an I.D.?" I asked patiently, though inside I was ready to carve him up with my talwar.

"What you need that for?" he demanded suddenly, his tongue licking his bronze-covered teeth. The druggie's hand(unconsciously, I'm sure- _not_) strayed towards the gun.

"To see if you're old enough."

"Man," he muttered with an exaggerated shake of his head, "I'm be twenty, dawg."

"Then prove it."

"How's this for I.D.?"

I stiffen for a moment as he pulled the matte black Colt from his waist strap and pointed it at my nose. I stared at it for a whole second before I started laughing. I stood laughing like a maniac for a minute while the black guy seriously considered pulling the trigger. With each passing second, that event seemed more and more likely.

He grimaced harder and shoved the gun closer to my nose. But I kept laughing. I couldn't help myself. I mean, come on! A squirt gun? A _squirt_ gun? Holding up a store with a squirt gun for _rolling papers_? I thought I'd seen it all, but apparently not.

He pulled the trigger, and everything stopped. For a whole second or three the entire gas station just stopped breathing. And then everyone laughed with me. The moron looked at his gun in shock, as if him having such a thing was an actual surprise.

He ran out of the store doors as a new person sauntered in. The new guy wore a plain white t shirt and ripped jeans. Tattoos ran up and down his muscled arms, and a dyed black mohawk sprang stalwartly from the rest of his head. Rings jutted from his thin lips, and studs dotted Derek Milligan's ears. The blank mask on his face told me my oldest bud meant business.

He spared the druggie running out of the building a passive glance as the moron ran away into the night. Derek walked to the counter without a second glance. Everyone else resumed their shopping.

"Another hold up?"

"Try prank gone wrong," I reply. "Whatcha need?"

"Cowboy killers."

I ring up the cigarettes and take his twenty. Giving him his change, I tell him I'll be off shift in ten minutes. He grunts, reaches into my front t-shirt pocket, takes my lighter, and walks out. As he sits on the sidewalk in front of the store, I finish my shift. Once the cigarettes were inventoried, the lotto reports filled, and my drawer put in the safe, I nod at the midnight guy, Mike, and join him.

"What's up?" I ask as I snatch my lighter and the cigarettes from him.

"Vampires and girlfriends," he muttered as he took a drag off his smoke.

"Huh?"

"I'll start with girlfriends," he elaborates, never looking at me. Keeping his gaze straight forward, he continues. "Trish was pissed off this morning. She came to me and 'Lee's apartment and kicked me out to talk girl shit. It's your fault."

"Look, man," I growl, anger bubbling inside my chest. A street light blew up out in the distance. "She can't ju-"

"I know. It's your fault, but she is to blame. It's cool. And now she is too. Natalie told her what was up, and that she can't change you from being you. Trish told me you're gonna get laid tonight to make up for it."

"Joy."

"What?"

"I have a further engagement tonight. You know."

Derek nodded in understanding. He was the only mortal man other than my father that knew I was a real wizard. We both went to Festus High school together, played wide receiver together on the football team all four years, and even went to grade school together. We've been tight since practically day one. So yeah, he knew what I was talking about.

"That's where I need to talk to you about these vampires. Since I'm listed as your contact for this gig as a Warden, your messenger guy came to me. He didn't want to bother you at work."

He handed me a packet. I took the lumpy construction paper package and tapped it on my knee. "Thanks bro."

"No prob. Party at my place this weekend?"

"Sounds good, bro."

"Aight, well, see you man," Derek stood up and grabs a raggedy old skateboard. With a jump and a twist in midair, he was off down the lot, shooting me a two fingered salute.

"See you."

I walk to my truck and get inside before I open the package. Inside are photos, files, case reports, and a long note personally addressed to me in a smooth, flowing handwriting that could only be the Warden Commander's. I peruse through the files and case reports, all pertaining to or mentioning a deadbeat gangster drug dealer by the name Marty Six Fingers.

Marty was definitely not on Santa's good list. In fact, he was so far down on the naughty list he would have enough coal to power a quarter of St. Louis County. Drug dealing, drug peddling, possession, intent to sell, sexual solicitation of minors, kidnapping, homicide, and a misdemeanor traffic offense all fell under his criminal jurisdiction. The man got around, I'd say.

The note detailed how I should find the guy, who was just starting to get into the supernatural trade. It appeared, according to Warden Commander Luccio. Certain aspects of his recent behavior hinted at him becoming very chummy with a pair of Red Court vampires, by the names of Landon and Abigail Hefstra.

Twins. Bloody brilliant, vampires that look, act and think alike.

The two were certified business types, good with money, accounting, and stock. It looked like maybe the vampires were looking to black market drugs as supplementary income, yes? Possibly. But Luccio thought it may be something more sinister. She wanted me to find Mr. Six Fingers, interrogate him, and bring him to a designated rendezvous so he could taken in front of the White Council.

Yeowch. I almost felt sorry for the guy. A mortal who was dangerous enough to be needed to be brought to the head of the White Council lost only one thing; his own head.

The last of the note had simple yes or no question. Do you accept this mission? It was surely a milk run, and some quick and easy hazard pay. How can a semi-financially challenged twenty one year old say no? I wrote on the back of the parchment **YES** in big, black letters, and started the truck. It was back to work for me.

…

I left the note in Derek's back yard, and drove to the outskirts of East St. Louis. For those who didn't know, East St. Louis is on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, an uninhabited building ratio of three to one, and has a population of roughly thirty one thousand. I say roughly because there is so much crime, any census of the town would be outdated within a day.

A hot bed of crime, an urban blight, and a project for urban renewal, the St. Louis suburb was not a pretty place to live. Gangs filled the streets with violence. Drugs sold put food on the table for the children. Hookers walked the sidewalks, turning tricks just to make it another day. A real sob story, boo hoo ka-choo.

Pulling off behind an old, abandoned warehouse near the old railroad tracks, I roll up my windows, lock the doors, and put a steering wheel lock on, tight. I made sure to park in the shadows of the old building, to better hide my baby. Then I toss my travelling bag in the bed, yank out a small plastic case, a smaller leather bag that tied to my belt, throw Marty's files and photos in to it, and sheath my talwar in its scabbard. I make a conscious decision to leave my gray Wardens cloak behind; best to keep it on the low and not look like a walking lunatic. Walking lunatics get shot on these streets.

I came out of the shadows with my shoulders hunched, my back straight, and my head on a swivel. My eyes dart, straight, left, right. The key to surviving here is to look cautious, slippery, and not to be screwed with all at the same time. And I do my best to look as such.

The streets were empty except for outdated and falling apart Cadillacs. Ghetto cruisers lined the crumbling asphalt roads with a gritty carpet of trash and creeping dead grass to drive on. Shambled buildings loomed over ominously, most with naught but ghosts to occupy them. Some may have been built before the introduction of modern electricity, for all I knew.

It didn't take long to come across an alley with someone lurking in it. Said somebodies were behind a rusted old dumpster, lighting up a long joint. Putting on my best druggie act, I walked up to them.

"Hey," I whisper, scratching my arm pseudo-nervously. "Who sold you that stuff, dawgs?"

The first one jumps, dropping the blunt and runs off. The second stares at me dangerously, all dark skin, muscles, and frowns-to-kill. "What's it to you, crackuh?"

"I'm lookin' for Marty, man. I need a fix."

"Six Finguhs? What's it to ya, whitey?"

I reach into my small leather bag and pull out a forged fifty dollar bill. "How about fifty?"

A smile stretches across the druggie's face. He snatches it from my hands and pointed back to end of the alley. "Thanks, jackass. Now, get outta my alley."

"Hey, man, I need-"

"I dun give a rat's ass what the white man needs. Get out before I cap you," the big man snarles, pulling out a Glock.

"I said tell me," I snarled back, my druggie impersonation slipping. I gripped my sword, which was fastened behind my back, where the druggie could thankfully not see. "Now."

"Or what!" the asshole yells. His eyes went here and there, back and forth. Not good practice for a gunman. Neither was holding his pistol in a gangster tilt, cocked to the side. All too easy.

"Or this."

I snap my hand out and grab his wrist in a deadlock. Grasping his wrist in just the right place, I push on the pressure point in between the joints and waited until he drops his gun. Catching the falling Glock before it hits the ground and accidentally fired, I bring the butt of the pistol around and snap it into the back of his elbow. Hard.

The joint breaks with a sickeningly satisfying pop, and the big guy falls to his knees. Pointing the firearm at his temple, I ask again, with sugar on top, "Where. Is. Six Fingers?"

"Down the street, in the condemned house on the corner of Ohio and 22nd street! Oh gawd, crackuh, stop!"

"Racism is a two-way street, hypocrite."

I smash the jerks gun into his temple like a club, and as he reeled down, delirious, I put his throat in the crook of my arm. Flexing my biceps and forearms, I cut the blood circulation to his brain. I wait as he sputters and gasps, weakly clawing at my arm in vain. After two minutes, the delirious black man passes out, but I hold on for another thirty seconds, to make sure he's down, but not dead. I pop the magazine out of the pistol, pocket the bullets, and through the emptied gun in the dumpster after wiping it clean.

A brisk jog gets me to a white house with chipped and peeling paint and a fallen in porch, sitting at the corner of 22nd Street and Ohio Avenue. There are no lights on from the front, but a faint, flickering flash crept out of the dingy window of the basement. Meth lab? The sinister project Luccio was suspicious of?

I would have no idea if I didn't see for myself.

Sneaking out to the back, I find a cellar door to the basement. It was locked by a rust encrusted combination lock. The hinges are corroded from years of misuse and showed no recent signs of use. It was an unconventional portal of entry, and if I handled it right, I just might get into the basement directly and discreetly, without sneaking over creaky floorboards and possible cave-ins.

Pulling a shortened version of my blasting rod from my bag, more appropriately called a wand, I mutter a quick quasi-Latin phrase on burn a three-foot diameter hole in the cellar door. Careful not to let the circular disk of wood clatter to the floor, I step inside.

Muffled voices come from the door at the base of the cellar stairs. Placing my ear to the old stained wood, I close my mind and just Listen. Listening, unlike listening, is not quite a magical trick as it is a meditative practice. Sure, since I'm a wizard with supernatural abilities, it is easier. But a calm and quiet mind could pull it off, as well. Naturally blocking out all other unnecessary background noises made by everyday life, I concentrate on the words being said in the basement.

"I don't care about dem bitches, Nmandi," a voice I can only assume as Marty Six Fingers snaps. A definitive Latino accent prevailed in his inflections. Born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, his file had said. "This deal is all money. It's all money. These supies think of it as some voodoo shit, I think of it as something more _real_. I think its money."

"Word on the street is dey vampires," another man grumbled uncomfortably, deep, bass. Judging by voice and the origins of his name, is it safe to assume Nmandi is another black guy? By virtue of cliché, is it safe to assume Bella will choose Edward in the next Twilight book? "I think we should stick to the shit we got right now. We gotta good thang-"

"A good thing? A good thing! Meth, hash, and coke are old shit, dawg! You think some white skin gringo wants to by the same old shit! These vampires are forging something for the future! A new drug, and one we can monopolize! Our meth labs can be easily changed, they said!"

"They say, they say, Martino. But just what is this shit, you tortilla-eating beaner? Do you even know what they are making this shit out of?"

"They said it was a specially purified protein-enzyme mixture."

"Yo, dawg! Do you even know what that shit means?"

"Not really, no."

In all my attention sapping eavesdropping, I never heard the sounds of someone behind me until I felt the barrel of the gun tap my neck. Stiffening, I lower my head and raise my hands. They person who caught me with my spy pants down rips my bag from my belt and relinquishes me of my sword.

"That's a good boy," a svelte, silky, feminine voice purrs in my ear. She licks my ear, and I shudder from the contact and get an immediate, shuddering, body numbing high. I got caught by a vampire. "Now, be a polite little boy and knock on our host's door?"


End file.
